


Canvas

by trashmage



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmage/pseuds/trashmage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Because somehow, you know that he can’t stand seeing that look of self-depreciation on your face any more than you can stand seeing it on his.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I've written for this fandom in about...oh, a year? Approximately. I found myself with a sudden, irresistible urge to try last night, and ended up actually finishing something for once. In barely twenty minutes. Please forgive any mistakes, I've gotten pretty rusty during my absence from the fandom.

Madarao says that he has no artistic talent.

Each and every time it comes up, you have to beg to differ. But of course, you keep this to yourself; your corrections remain in your head, never to be voiced.

Truth be told, you think that he’s just being modest.

Modesty is certainly not a trait you would put past him, despite the air of arrogance he somehow still manages to give off. Madarao is a complicated creature, and you have no small amount of love for trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle.

However, when night falls—that’s when everything changes. When the sun goes down behind whatever horizon you happen to be on the cusp of at the time, that’s when the situation gets reversed and it becomes Madarao’s turn to inspect _you_ ; to try to figure you out, and map out every aspect of you, body and mind. Except he’s already had you figured out since before you’d even known he was trying, and now it’s the cover of darkness that brings out the artist in him.

His hands are carefully gentle; enough to drive you mad, because you know that these are the hands that an artist would use on his most precious sculpture, and you know that means that Madarao is trying _so hard_ not to break you.

It almost makes you angry.

Your body is his canvas, and he decorates it in any way he sees fit. Mostly with syrup or melted chocolate, and the soft marks from his mouth that follow along after; the ones that regrettably fade after only a few hours.

That _does_ make you angry, but you keep it to yourself because seeing evidence of him on you for only those fleeting moments in the grand scheme of your lives is better than not seeing them at all, and you won’t dare give him a reason to stop.

You don’t want him to take that away from you.

Eventually, however, you manage to discover just how to provoke him enough during the act to make him leave bruises that will last a good deal longer.

And you love it.

You love it, and you feel like the most accomplished genius in the world for making it happen, until the next morning. When he sees what he’d done and the memory of it comes flooding back to him right before your very eyes, and the expression of pure guilt and grief and horror that sweeps over his face is enough to make you want to take it all back instantly.

And suddenly you feel horrible.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ you whisper hurriedly, in a panic, and the look he gives you in return has you confused. It’s a look that tells you he has no idea why you would apologize, and because of that you do it again. You can’t have him feeling like he’s the one that did something awful, when he only did what you knowingly pushed him to do.

And so you apologize a third time, and step forward, but before you can get out even the first word of explanation, you’re being pulled to him and he cuts you off with a kiss.

Then he tells you that if you’re both sorry, then you must cancel each other out and so everything is alright. But you know that he’s still beating himself up inside, as are you yourself, and you suspect that he’s only saying it to make you stop. Because somehow, you know that he can’t stand seeing that look of self-depreciation on your face any more than you can stand seeing it on his.

Still, it’s these moments of silly, almost not quite logical wisdom that he has, that make you love him all the more. And so you smile and nod, and you promise not to make him do anything like that again, or you’ll never forgive yourself for being responsible for making him feel like—

And a second time, he uses his lips to tell you to shut up.

You’re more than happy to oblige.

Madarao is the greatest artist of them all as far as you’re concerned, regardless of what he says. And you know now not to complain about just how he decides to express that talent. You can’t tell an artist how to do his work, even using less than words.

Every tender brush and stroke of his lips and fingers is a masterpiece to you, and you know better than to rush perfection.


End file.
